


still one for all

by chickenmuffinsoup55555



Series: still inseparable [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Aramis is still bi don't you worry, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Gen, Miscommunication, Prom!, also I hate Rochefort so goddamned much, and I had a gun with only two bullets I’d shoot hitler and stalin, bc i had to, did I mention I hate Rochefort?, everybody spends at least an hour a day being Concerned for Athos, if I was in a room with hitler Stalin and Rochefort, nobody will tell Porthos anything poor baby, now with like 90 percent more of the ladies!, thats a more accurate tag than "humor", then strangle Rochefort with my bare hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenmuffinsoup55555/pseuds/chickenmuffinsoup55555
Summary: There's something wrong with Athos, Aramis is in crisis, d'Artagnan is d'Artagnan, and nobody will tell Porthos anything.  All in all, just another week in Treville's chaotic household.
Relationships: Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Series: still inseparable [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910221
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	still one for all

**Author's Note:**

> there is some extended discussion of a character dealing with addition (you can probably guess who), i don't know if i need to make a warning about that, but better safe than sorry

Aramis flung open the bathroom door. “Athos-”

“ _ Aramis! _ What the  _ hell _ -” Athos furiously attempted to redo the top button on his jeans. 

“Athos, this is serious.” At first, Aramis hadn’t been sure that Athos had both heard and remembered the content of the phone call. But then he noticed Athos had been avoiding him ever since it happened. Really, he was far from subtle—he practically tripped over himself to avoid being alone in the same room as Aramis. One of his favorite tricks, Aramis had noticed, was declaring loudly that he needed to go to the bathroom, or simply slipping into the bathroom as quickly as possible. After Aramis had noticed this, and that morning he and Athos had ended up in the hallway at the same time, and, on cue, Athos had ducked into the bathroom. 

Aramis hadn’t actually expected Athos to need to  _ use  _ the bathroom, but he was flexible.

“ _ Get. Out. _ ”

“Not until you swear not to tell Treville.”

“Fine!” Athos threw up his hands. “Have I ever snitched on you before? Did I tell Treville when you and Porthos egged the house or when you ran into that mailbox-” Both occasions had resulted in Aramis calling Athos, frantically begging for his help to avoid getting in trouble (the egging situation only required begging because Treville, upon seeing the damage done to the house, did not think of it as a simple prank, but as a threat upon their household, and launched a full investigation that required a concerted effort from the then-three boys to stay a step ahead).

“This is different. And you know that.” 

Athos worked his jaw. Athos did know that. Never before had Aramis done something so colossally stupid that he’d potentially fucked up not only his entire life, but someone else’s too. 

“Please, Athos.”

“I said fine. I swear on my life, I will not tell Treville.”

Aramis gave him a look. 

Athos rolled his eyes. “I swear on Musketballs’ life.”

“You hate Musketballs-”

“I don’t hate Musketballs-” Athos sighed. “I swear on d’Artagnan, happy? Or would you prefer I swore on my car? Or perhaps you’d like me to rip my own heart out and swear on that-”

“D’Artagnan will do just fine, thank you.” Aramis grabbed Athos’ hand and held it in both of his, catching his eyes meaningfully. “ _ Thank you _ .”

“I need to fucking pee.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Aramis pulled open the door, coming face to face with Porthos, who had one hand extended as if he were reaching for the doorknob. 

“Uh,” Porthos said, looking between his brothers. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Good lord.” Athos bodily shoved Aramis out of the bathroom. “Aramis was just leaving. Will somebody  _ please  _ tell Treville to fix the lock on this door?” With that, he slammed the door shut.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Ah, nothing. I was just trying to help Athos with the lock. Clearly,” he gestured to the door, “we didn’t figure it out.”

A full five seconds passed before Porthos said, “Okay.” The lock to the bathroom door had been broken for two weeks now.

“I’ve got to finish getting ready for school.” Aramis walked past Porthos, patting him on the shoulder as he went. Aramis kept a count of all the times he’d lied to Porthos, and it was actually starting to disturb him how high the number had gotten in the past couple weeks alone. He’d tell Porthos eventually, he’d have to, but for now, Anne had really given the impression she did not want him running around telling people. Athos had been a complete and total accident, but at least Aramis knew that this accident could keep a secret. As much as he loved Porthos, he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. After all, Porthos told Aramis absolutely everything, down to his random thoughts on marigolds (which could be surprisingly insightful).

Porthos eyed Aramis as he left. Something was off, but he told himself he believed Aramis (because Aramis would never lie to  _ him _ ), and started down the stairs.

“Don’t call again.”

Porthos froze. He’d never heard Treville sound quite like that before. He crept further down the stairs, risking a glance down into the kitchen, and saw Treville with his phone to his ear.

“I’ve already said no. You can’t see him.”

Porthos’ eyes widened. Was he talking to Aramis’ mom? Why was he denying her visiting rights?

“Don’t attempt to contact him either. If you do, I will know.” On that ominous note, Treville hung up, and Porthos belatedly threw himself back behind up the stairs. It didn’t make sense, not really. Porthos was pretty sure he’d seen a handful of letters for Aramis from his mom, and they were just sitting on the kitchen table. Surely, if for whatever reason Treville had suddenly decided not to allow Aramis’ mom any contact with him, he’d have thrown away the letters?

Porthos had been less than stealthy when he’d jumped back up the stairs to avoid being seen, but luckily for him, Treville’s mind had been elsewhere, and he hadn’t even noticed all the noise Porthos had made. In fact, Treville only noticed Porthos after he’d stepped all the way down the stairs and stood directly in front of Treville.

“Earth to Dad,” he said, waving a hand in front of him.

Treville blinked. “What?”

“I said good morning, Dad.”

“Ah. Yes. Good morning…Porthos.”

Porthos tried to school his features into something that didn’t betray the fact that he’d just heard a phone call he almost certainly was not meant to hear. He nodded once. Then he stepped past Treville to the fridge. On the whole, both Porthos and Treville considered it a strange interaction, and both of them hoped that they came off as the normal one. 

It couldn’t be Athos’ parents, Porthos thought, they were dead. So were d’Artagnan’s. Aramis’ dad, maybe? Porthos didn’t know he’d ever been in the picture. That phone call was definitely about one of them, it had to be. He pulled out a carton of eggs, glancing back at Treville, who hadn’t yet moved from where he was standing. It was  _ definitely  _ about one of them.

Porthos sat at the kitchen table with his carton of raw eggs. “Dad?”

Treville turned around quickly. “Yes?”

Porthos absently opened and closed his carton of eggs. “Nothing,” he said eventually. It seemed like everyone in his family had been acting strangely the past week. The only one of them who had been acting vaguely normal was d’Artagnan, and normal for d’Artagnan could mean a wide variety of things and none of them the same as ‘normal’ meant for any other human being on the planet.

Athos came down the stairs, fumbling with something on his jeans as he went. He went straight to Porthos and removed his hands from his jeans. “Porthos.”

“What?” 

“Can you please…button my jeans.”

“Excuse me?” Athos’ jeans were indeed unbuttoned and only halfway zipped. Porthos just didn’t see how that was his problem. Treville watched the interaction with clear concern.

“Do I really need to repeat myself?” Athos at least had the grace to sound a little embarrassed. He was gripping his hands to his chest in a very un-Athos-like manner. 

“Are you on some weird kind of power trip? Because you know just because you’re older doesn’t mean you can make me do whatever you want. Why don’t you just wear your pajamas? You barely ever wear actual clothes to school anyway.”

“I need to look my best today.”

Porthos stared at him. “Are you being sarcastic? I genuinely can’t tell.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Athos said, getting just the  _ slightest  _ bit frustrated. This was, in fact, his most formal attire: jeans, dark t-shirt with a band he didn’t listen to on it, and his beat-up Adidas. 

“Fine, but don’t make this a habit.” Porthos and Athos both determinedly avoided the other’s eyes while Porthos buttoned Athos’ jeans.

D’Artagnan came thundering down the stairs, Musketballs directly on his heels, in desperate need of a pee. He slowed down when he finally looked up from his phone to see three members of his family each in awkward positions. “Uhhhh….”

“Ten minutes and I’m leaving you,” Athos said briskly.

That morning it wasn’t d’Artagnan in danger of being left behind, but Aramis, who’d spent just a few seconds too long on his hair. He’d had to run out the door and jump into the car mid-pulling out of the driveway, shooting a dirty look at Athos as he did so. Athos, for his part, pretending to have forgotten how human expressions work and only looked back at him mildly.

At school, Athos had a primary objective that had nothing to do with learning anything. He hung around the hallways, waiting around for one person in particular. They didn’t have a specified meeting, but Athos only had five numbers in his phone, so when he needed to get into contact with someone (which rarely happened), he relied primarily on “assisted coincidence.” It paid off near the end of the day when he heard voices from around the corner.

“Do you mind buzzing off?”

“It’s a free county, if I want to stay here-”

Athos tossed his hydroflask onto the floor and was very pleased when Marcheaux jumped out of his own skin. The absolutely deafening sound had scared the shit out of him, too, when he’d dropped it for the first time in class after falling asleep. Every consecutive time it had happened he wondered when would be the day his teacher would pick it up and catch a whiff, and then he’d never be left in peace to drink all class.

“Hello Constance,” Athos said, pretending for all intents and purposes that Marcheaux didn’t exist.

“Athos.” Constance smiled with no teeth.

“ _ Athos _ ,” Marcheaux repeated. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten the beating he’d received from Athos last week.

Athos took his time turning from Constance to Marcheaux. “Would you really like to stick around?”

Marcheaux flexed the muscles in his hands. Athos raised his eyebrows. Constance only barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Eventually Marcheaux turned on his heel and left down the hall. Athos almost snorted at the idea that Marcheaux thought he was worth anybody’s time of day.

“How are you, Constance?” Athos asked as he and Constance fell into step with each other.

“I’m…fine.” Constance was fine, but her response did nothing to assure Athos of that. Athos only had the vaguest of understanding about whatever was going on with Constance and d’Artagnan, but he knew enough to know there was something wrong. If Athos  _ did  _ know what was going on, he probably would have written d’Artagnan off as a lost cause. Because while there were other things that had gone into the semi-breakup that occurred between Constance and d’Artagnan, the main point of contention was a disagreement they had over the merits of a certain sport. It had started with Constance telling d’Artagnan she wouldn’t play lacrosse this year (or ever) and before she knew it they were yelling and she had told d’Artagnan it was a stupid sport anyway, and d’Artagnan, with actual tears in his eyes, had something along the lines of “Well I guess we can’t be friends anymore!” Constance wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but so far they’d been acting like it meant they had broken up, so she was going along with it for the time being.

Constance was just waiting for d’Artagnan to cool down, and then she was certain things would get back to normal. (D’Artagnan was  _ literally  _ crying himself to sleep every night and spending way too much time flicking through all the photos they had taken together). 

“If you insist,” Athos said. He probably would have pressed the point if he had any idea how. Athos liked Constance, partly because Constance was generally very likable, and partly because Constance seemed to Athos like a younger sister, and having a younger sister came with considerably less baggage than having younger brothers did for Athos.

Constance liked Athos because she genuinely enjoyed his company—an occurrence that was actually rather rare for Athos.

“You know,” Athos said after a beat, “you can still come by the house. Even if you and d’Artagnan are…” Athos waved his hand around. He didn’t really know what was going on with the two of them.

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea.” Constance scrunched up her nose apologetically.

Athos sighed and grabbed his hydroflask from where it had rolled. “Would you like me to beat some sense into him? I’m willing.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you Athos.” Constance paused in front of a classroom door. “This is my class, I was just using the bathroom when I ran into Marcheaux.”

“I’ll let you be, then.” Athos was a little disappointed. He’d been hoping for some more positive feedback regarding her and d’Artagnan’s relationship. Or, at the very least, he’d been hoping Constance would agree to come hang out around the house. Athos really needed the distraction, and Constance was on Athos’ approved list of people he would commit felonies for, which meant she was cool to hang.

Constance reentered her classroom and took her seat, not really thinking about the symbiotic relationship between Great Whites and suckerfish, but rather why on earth Athos was wearing jeans. Then the bell rang and she was funneled with everyone else into the hallway that was choking with kids who wanted nothing more than to get out a single pair of double doors. Constance spotted a familiar head of blonde hair and weaved through the crowd.

“Hello Anne,” Constance said, attaching herself to her friend’s side.

Anne cut off her phone quickly and shoved it into her pocket. “Hi Constance,” she said, a couple beats too late.

Constance eyed her for a moment, eyebrows raised, but Anne just smiled and said, “How was your day?”

“Alright.” Constance let it slide. There had been something going on with Anne the past few weeks, something Anne wasn’t telling her. And Anne generally told Constance everything—Constance even knew about Aramis. Although, granted, Anne hadn’t really meant to tell her. By pure coincidence Constance had been waiting outside the school for d’Artagnan’s practice to end (while pretending she wasn’t waiting, because they hadn’t actually been  _ together  _ at this point) when she’d seen Aramis and Anne talking.  _ Talking  _ by itself wasn’t suspicious, but by the time they’d started sucking face, Constance had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Anne had then told Constance absolutely everything that had happened in far more detail than Constance was interested in. 

But with the exception of the Aramis situation (and Constance  _ did  _ consider it a situation, especially considering the weird inter-family politics that were for some reason involved in Anne’s relationship with Louis), Anne really did tell Constance everything. It was a mutually beneficial and understood relationship (quite unlike Aramis’ and Porthos’), and it really only worked because Anne and Constance existed in different stratospheres when it came to social groups. Anne was a junior and a cheerleader, and, through childhood friendships and the interconnected nature of their families, was stuck with a very specific crowd, a crowd that tended to be wealthy and rather entitled. Constance was a floater, well-liked by everyone, but not  _ quite  _ well-liked enough to be allowed to insert herself into Anne’s crowd, and Constance honestly preferred it that way. 

“Your season’s over, right?” she asked Anne as the two of them navigated the sea of people on their way to the main exit.

“It just ended, yes. I’m honestly glad for it. I’ve been rather stressed lately.” Anne’s hand started drifting towards her midsection before she caught herself.

Constance nodded. Anne  _ had  _ been looking stressed, and perhaps a little ill. “That’s good. I know you’re taking a lot of AP’s, it’s a lot of work.”

“What? Oh, yes, school.” Anne and Constance stepped outside, the sun glaring brightly. “Oh, there’s my ride.”

“Ride?” Constance asked, following Anne’s gaze to a bright white SUV with a man in the driver’s seat, blonde haired and looking perhaps twenty or twenty one.

“Yes, Rochefort. He’s a family friend—our parents have known each other for years. He’s staying with us for a little while, so he’s been borrowing my mom’s car.”

“Hm.” He  _ sounded  _ like a freeloader. Not that Constance would tell Anne that. “How long has he been staying with you?”

“About a week now,” Anne answered, absently. She felt her phone go off in her pocket and wanted nothing more than to check it immediately, but knew she couldn’t—not with Constance here now nor with Rochefort on the drive home.

“Right,” Constance replied, recognizing well how distracted Anne was. How long had Anne been acting strangely? It had been about a week or so, hadn’t it? She narrowed her eyes in the direction of the SUV.

“Bye, Constance. See you tomorrow.” 

Anne started walking toward the car when Constance called out, “I almost forgot—congratulations.”

Anne turned, fully. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear the announcements? You and Louis?”

“Constance,  _ what _ ?”

“Prom King and Queen,” Constance said, now actually worried. “You really didn’t hear?”

“Oh,” Anne said, nodding to herself. “Oh, yes. Lovely.” She turned away from Constance again, saying to herself, “This is great. This is fine. This is all perfectly okay.”

Constance watched Anne, concerned, all the way until she got in the SUV. Then she saw a familiar black Kia pass bye to remind her of her own problems.

Inside said Kia, Porthos was wishing his wrestling season hadn’t ended. Athos had whipped the car out of their parking space with a lurch, and things hadn’t gotten better since then. Pulling out of the school parking lot and into the street, Athos very nearly collided with a ratty old sedan that was pulling out at the same time. Athos muttered under his breath as they both pulled up to the light.

“Fuck off-” Athos rolled down his window and started over. “Fuck off, Grimmaud!” He held up his middle finger out the window. “Fuck you!”

The boy in the car next to them, who had shoulder length brown hair and actually looked a lot like Athos, held up his hands as if to say  _ what the fuck, dude? _ Porthos had to agree.

“Fucking hate that guy.” 

Porthos wasn’t actually aware Athos cared enough about anybody to hate them. “Are you  _ sure _ you haven’t been drinking?”

“ _ Porthos _ .” Athos turned to Porthos as he accelerated out of the light. “You really think I’d drive drunk—with you in the car?”

“Athos,” Porthos began, gripping the car door, “I’ve known you since I was eight, and I still don’t know  _ what  _ the hell you’d do.” Porthos was pretty sure he knew Athos better than anybody else, but he still couldn’t have said what his interests were besides being drunk and being awful at darts while drunk.

Athos just squinted at him. “Apparently that’s going around,” he said, which was a sentence that made absolutely no sense to Porthos, and barely made any more sense to Athos.

“And what the hell is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

Athos shrugged. “Blame it on the existentialism.”

Porthos stared at Athos for a full five seconds before turning away. “I hate it when you say that.” Porthos hated it because he had no idea what existentialism actually  _ was _ , and no amount of googling had given him a definite enough answer to call Athos on his bullshit. Athos, on the other hand, loved existentialism, because he had no idea what it meant either, but saying it usually intimidated his brothers enough to let him say just about whatever he wanted.

“I miss riding with Aramis already,” Porthos muttered under his breath. Aramis was not actually much better at driving than Athos, but it was less nerve-wracking  _ is he drunk?  _ and more drive-too-fast-with-the-windows-down and blast-this-music-loud-enough-to-give-them- hearing-loss.

Athos glanced at him and smirked, just a tiny bit, but enough to make Porthos grin too. Athos’ smirks were infectious, even if only because a smile of any kind from him was so rare. Athos managed not to hit anything on their way home, but Porthos was still determined to make sure  _ he  _ was the one in the driver’s seat next time.

“Hello boys,” Treville said as the two of them walked into the house. He was seated at the kitchen table with a laptop and an entire filing cabinet’s worth of papers strewn about.

“Hi Dad,” Porthos said.

Treville’s previously smiling face vanished and he looked sharply back to his papers. Porthos frowned. Athos tripped on the way to his room.

“Athos, if I ran I blood-alcohol test on you right now-”

“It would come up clean,” Athos said, cutting Treville off.

Porthos snorted, because Athos was rarely so uncoordinated when sober, partially a byproduct of years learning perfect fencing footwork.

“Just in case, I’ll pick up d’Artagnan tonight.”

Athos and Treville stared each other down. Ultimately, Athos blinked first. “Fine,” he said, injecting  _ just  _ the right amount of contempt that it was clearly noticeable but not enough for him to be called out on. He turned around, slammed his foot into the couch, pretended it didn’t happen, and slammed his door behind him.

“Watcha doin’?” Porthos asked, when it became obvious they were just going to ignore whatever was going on with Athos, and pulled out a chair from the table.

“Work.” 

Porthos gave him an unimpressed look, one that Treville threw right back at him.

“You know I can’t talk about it.”

“Is there something you  _ can  _ talk about?”

Treville sharpened his gaze. “What do you mean?”

Porthos shrugged, painfully bad at playing nonchalant. “Nothing. I just mean—if there’s something you want to talk about…something important…”

Treville stared at his son, and ran through his head a million answers to the question:  _ how could he have found out? _ only to come to the (only somewhat false) conclusion that there’s no way Porthos could know. “No,” he said, pretending to think about it. “Nothing.”

“Right.” Porthos stood up. “I’m going to go do homework.”

“Great,” Treville said with a forced smile. “Great idea.”

Porthos side-eyed him as he left the room. Treville let out a puff of air once he was gone.  _ That was close _ , he thought.

“Take  _ off  _ those damn cleats, you’ll ruin the floors.”

D’Artagnan, just picked up from practice, frowned at his brother.

“Do as Athos says,” Treville said, walking past d’Artagnan through the door.

Grumbling, d’Artagnan pulled off his cleats as he stumbled into the house. He collapsed onto the opposite end of the couch from Athos, pulling out his phone.

“D’Artagnan, flirting with anything that moves, will not, in fact, help you get back together with Constance.” 

D’Artagnan looked up from his phone with a glower. Athos just raised his eyebrows. As a general rule, Athos cared very little about the romantic relationships his brothers got into. If they ever made a truly horrific choice, he’d intervene, but otherwise he employed a live and let live philosophy (the less said about his past relationship, the better). However, now that d’Artagnan’s relationship problems were affecting one of the few aspects of Athos’ life he enjoyed (i.e. Constance), Athos felt the need to do  _ something _ . Even if that something was just annoying d’Artagnan and giving him little to no usable advice.

“I  _ know _ that,” d’Artagnan said, pretending that he knew that. But at this point, d’Artagnan was desperate. It had been six days and seven hours since he and Constance had broken up. It had only taken him five days and six hours to realize that Constance was more important to him than lacrosse could ever be, and he’d spent the remainder of the past week trying everything he could think of to earn her back. He’d even become so desperate that he’d asked his brothers for advice (not Athos, obviously, that was a minefield). Porthos, who’d never been in a relationship in his life, had said, “uhhhhhh,” for a full minute and a half before clapping d’Artagnan on the shoulder and telling him he was sure it would all work out. Aramis, surprisingly, did not suggest flirting with every girl he saw in a petty attempt to make Constance jealous. He’d suggested a grand romantic display involving flowers, chocolates, golden retrievers, and a promposal, that somehow spiraled into an actual proposal. About halfway through his spiel, d’Artagnan got the distinct feeling Aramis had forgotten that they were supposed to be talking about him and Constance.

“Just talk to her,” Athos said, leaning forward. “Please.”

D’Artagnan turned back to his phone. Talking to Constance  _ seemed  _ like good advice, but it was coming from  _ Athos _ . He needed to take it with a grain of salt, if not an entire salt mine.

Athos heaved a great sigh and fell back against the couch. Athos could lead d’Artagnan to the obvious fucking answer, but getting him to take it was impossible.

Just then, the front door opened, and Aramis came through, tossing the keys onto the couch next to d’Artagnan. “Where have  _ you  _ been?”

“Out,” Aramis answered briskly, snatching the bundle of letters up from the kitchen table and bounded up the stairs.

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows and turned to Athos. “Do you wanna bet what ‘out’ means?”

“No.”

Upstairs, Aramis barged through the door to his and Porthos’ room, tossing the handful of letters that Terville had left on the table for him onto his already-cluttered desk. Porthos, who was lying halfway on the top bunk, glanced up from his phone.

“You mom?” he asked.

Aramis pulled off his shirt. “Yeah. She always sends them in bunches.”

“You gonna write her back?”

“Maybe.” He started rummaging through his closet, eventually picking an off-white v-neck that he pulled on over his head before glancing in the mirror and immediately pulling it off again. “Naturally, none of them have return addresses, so if she wants me to contact her, she better not have changed her email again.”

Porthos grimaced and tried and failed to come up with a suitable response. “That sucks.”

Aramis, now in a new shirt, said, “Yeah.”

Porthos opened his mouth to say something before closing it again. Porthos’ memories of his mother were fuzzy and few, but at least what little he had he felt happy and loved. Aramis’ relationship with his mom was infinitely more complicated, and the fact that Aramis never really  _ talked  _ about it definitely didn’t help to uncomplicate it. Porthos always felt bad about it, but whenever the nebulous topic of Aramis’ mom came up he always found himself grateful to have Treville. At this current point in time, however, he was not at all happy with his father.

“I think there’s something he’s not telling me.” Porthos sat up the top bunk, legs dangling down the side.

“Who?” Aramis asked, poking his head out of the closet. “Athos? Don’t worry about it, he doesn’t tell anybody anything.” Aramis may have said that last part slightly too quickly, too concerned about his own problems and the very personal secret Athos was keeping for him.

“No, Dad. He’s been acting weird.”

“Weird?” Aramis held up a shirt to his chest and leaned into view of the mirror. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know…” Porthos did know, he just felt silly saying it out loud. The tail end of a half heard phone call, the strange flinches and lack of eye contact whenever Porthos addressed him, all the little things added up (a lack of subtly was something the boys had evidently learned from Treville).

Aramis pulled off his shirt to change it, officially the third time that night. “Well if you don’t know,” he said, through the new shirt he was pulling on, “then maybe it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Porthos insisted.

“Then I believe you,” Aramis said, focusing his gaze on Porthos and softening his voice the same way he did when talking to someone to convince him he was one hundred percent in all things on their side. He used this voice most often when talking to girls, small children, and Porthos. “But I have to go.”

“What?” Porthos asked as Aramis opened the window. “Wait, you’re going out?”

“I have a really important…meeting.”

“Meeting. Right.” Porthos pulled his legs up onto the bunk.

“Porthos-”

“Don’t wake me up when you get back.” Porthos laid down and rolled over to face the wall, ignoring the fact that their overhead light was still on.

“Porthos, come on, it’s not like that…” Aramis took a step forward before stopping. He glanced back to the window, then to his watch. He really could not be late to seeing Anne. Not when it was the first time they’d be meeting face to face after…well, after everything. So Aramis slipped out the window, skidding onto the roof of their porch, then dropped to the ground.

“Anne!” Aramis barely let his voice rise above a tight whisper despite them, shockingly, being the only ones in the playground at one in the morning.

Anne whipped her head around to face him. She waved him over to the bench she was sitting on.

Aramis jogged over and sat on the bench, painfully aware of the foot and a half of empty space he left between them. He couldn’t help but feel there was some kind of cosmic significance in their meeting that night.

Anne was too busy fidgeting with her hands and worrying how she’d cover it up if she threw up again tomorrow morning to be concerned over the ‘cosmic significance’ of her teenage pregnancy. “So,” she began, forcibly ending her fidgeting and running her hands over her jeans. “I’m pregnant.” She’d found the more she said that to herself in the mirror (after double and triple checking that she was alone in the house), the easier it was to actually believe it.

“So,” Aramis repeated. “You’re pregnant.”

The two of them looked at each other simultaneously, and, upon seeing the fear and uncertainty each of them felt reflected on the other’s face, broke into nervous and slightly hysterical laughter.

“Oh God,” Aramis said, glancing upward. “You really are pregnant, aren’t you?”

“I took the test four times,” Anne said, laughter still in her voice. “I didn’t break up with Louis for no reason.”

In an instant, Aramis had sobered. “So you  _ did  _ break up with him?”

“Of course,” Anne said, mirroring Aramis’ suddenly serious tone. “I’m pregnant with someone else’s child. And…” She awkwardly broke eye contact. Staring intently at a stray piece of mulch, she said, “It wasn’t right, being with him. After what we did. After how I feel.”

Aramis was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating. This was happening nearly exactly the way it did in one of the many daydreams he’d had. Minus the whole teenage pregnancy thing, that is. He hadn’t ever conceived of that particular little road bump. “I also feel that way,” he said, in a rush. “Assuming the way you’re feeling is the way I think you mean.”

“ _ Aramis _ ,” Anne said, in a tone Aramis couldn’t quite decipher. “You don’t have to…we don’t have to—just because of…” Anne placed a hand over her stomach and a switch flipped for Aramis.

“Oh!” Aramis had genuinely never, even in all of his many daydreams, considered the idea that Anne did not know how completely and totally taken he was with her. “No! I’m not only saying this because of, well,” Aramis waved his hand in the general vicinity of Anne’s stomach area. “I’ve wanted to be with you for, well, since before we ever slept together.”

“Really? But you’re always—“ Anne cut herself off. She didn’t really want to ruin a conversation that she herself had been imagining more than she’d like to admit. Again, minus the teenage pregnancy. The two of them had evidently forgotten how the basic reproductive system worked, and thus neither of them ever conceived of pregnancy as a thing that could happen.

“Always what?”

Anne looked away again. “Let’s just say…there are a lot of girls on the squad who have had  _ similar experiences  _ to me.” (Minus the teenage pregnancy).

Aramis opened his mouth, stumped for a moment.  _ Anne  _ was the one relationship that mattered, and, for some reason, that made it exponentially harder for him to talk to her. With anyone else (with only a one or two (one, if he was being honest) exceptions), he could whip up a response in with half a moment’s notice that was the perfect combination of emotionally open, vaguely witty or clever, and with just a dash of flirtatiousness. “Anne, I want to be with  _ you _ . I don’t—I don’t know how to prove that to you.”

Anne searched his face. She broke into a smile upon finding the truthful sincerity she was looking ( _ hoping _ ) for. “I think you just did.”

Aramis let out a sigh of relief that was only a little exaggerated. “Good,” he said, feeling decidedly more comfortable now that their conversation was on a track he understood better. “But it’s too bad you won’t get to see all the elaborate public displays of my devotion I had planned.”

Anne smiled softly. “I suppose I’ll just have to image them.”

Aramis was seized with the sudden and irrational impulse to actually come up with crazy ways to show Anne he cared. Then Anne looked back down to her stomach and he was thrown harshly back to reality, and the conversation was once again back to areas he was in no way familiar with.

“Will you…keep it?”

Anne bit her lip for a moment, then nodded. “I do want to keep it, I just…I don’t know how to deal with this.”

“Hey,” Aramis said, placing a gentle hand over her’s, which she hadn’t realized she’d started fidgeting with again, “we can get through this.”

“ _ We _ ? Aramis, you can talk to me about  _ we  _ when you have a fetus growing inside of you!” Anne took a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Aramis said, voice pitched about an octave higher than usual. “It’s a very stressful situation.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s still okay. We—sorry, can I say ‘we’?”

Anne gave Aramis a look of affected irritation that was ninety percent fondness. “Yes, Aramis, you can say ‘we.’”

“Alright.” Aramis shifted his weight on the bench so he was facing Anne. He took her hands again in a nearly-urgent grip. “Anne, we’re in this together. I promise I’ll be there for you—and the baby. No matter what.”

Anne squeezed his hands back. “We’re in this together,” she repeated, trying the words out on her tongue and in her mind. She’d felt so very alone since she’d found out, especially after breaking up with Louis, whom she’d been with since freshman year. The relationship wasn’t working, and perhaps had never worked, but still, he was a huge part of her life, and now he was gone. And with her brother studying abroad in Spain, she’d felt like there was no one she could turn to, not even with Rochefort staying with them.

“Anne, I-” The words got stuck in Aramis’ throat.

Anne didn’t know what he was going to say, not really, but she nodded like she did. She pulled her hands away from his and reached around to the back of her neck. She pulled off her necklace, pressing the golden cross into Aramis’ hands.

“Here,” she said. Aramis just stared at it. “We’re in this together, right?”

“Right,” Aramis said, blinking. He pulled it around his own neck, and managed to close the clasp first try. “Together.” He ran his fingers over the cross, memorizing its feel against his skin before dropping it underneath his shirt.

  
  


The next day was a blur of activity in the Treville household. Everyone had a billion and a half things to do. Everyone, that is, except for Athos. Athos had been alternating between sitting in his room skimming through a dictionary he’d found under his bed and sitting on the couch out in the living room, feeding Musketballs the bits of food he pulled out of the bowels of the couch. The latter activity came with the added challenge of not getting caught by anyone, which might have been more excited had they all not been so deeply wrapped up in their own affairs.

Athos was in his room, currently reading the sixth definition of “text” when Treville came in.

“It’s about changing your patterns of behavior,” Treville said. He had a pamphlet in his hand. He was standing between Athos and the door.

“…what is?” Playing dumb, worked, didn’t it? At the very least, it would buy him time.

“Your problem.” Treville was looking at him the same way he looked at him when he asked him to fence with him. Athos glanced to the window. Treville extended the pamphlet to him. “Take a look.”

“My…problem.” The window kept looking better by the second.

Treville sighed, deeply. “The alcohol, Athos.”

“Oh. That problem.”

“It’s a coping mechanism,” Treville said.

Athos blinked, once, very slowly. “Okay.”

When Athos continued to not take the pamphlet and also not say anything else, Treville heaved a huge sigh and tossed the pamphlet next to Athos on his bed before pulling Athos’ chair out from under his desk. Treville removed the pile of papers Athos hadn’t touched since October and set them on the desk, on top of the papers Athos hadn’t touched since last January. He sat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at Athos with a face that meant he was about to get a “dad” talk.

Athos very much did not want a “dad” talk, now or ever. He stood up. “I have to-”

“Sit down.”

Athos sat down.

“I hope you weren’t planning on going to Prom, because you’ll be staying here with me tonight.”

Athos hadn’t realized that was tonight, but knowing that, Aramis running around screeching about a corsage and Porthos burning himself with an iron made a lot more sense. Why d’Artagnan needed him to buy ten boxes of cereal for him was still a mystery though. Unfortunately, Athos was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the past three days straight, so convincing Treville he  _ had  _ been meaning to go to Prom probably wouldn’t have worked too well.

“Alright,” he said slowly, still trying to come up with some viable way to get himself out of this, and still coming up blank. He finally set down the dictionary. His eyes flickered over to the window again. “Exactly what will we be doing?”

Treville leaned back. “Well, d’Artagnan will be home, so we can have a nice family game night.”

Athos stared. A family game night wherein he would be required to stay sober did not at all sound ‘nice.’ Mainly because everyone in his family was far too competitive. Since Treville rarely had time for game nights, whenever they played, it was usually only Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, so Athos had made a drinking game out of it. He took a shot when Porthos said ‘fuck;’ when d’Artagnan missed an obvious move that would have led to him winning the game; when Aramis convinced someone to work against their own best interest in a way that would benefit him; when Porthos flipped the game board or table; when Aramis and Porthos talked in their made-up code; and when d’Artagnan lost and stormed off, only to return two minutes later when it sounded like they were still having fun. Last time, they’d played Monopoly, and he’d gotten so smashed he’d started crying about how tiny the thimble piece was. It was all around a great time.

Playing with only d’Artagnan and Treville, with the latter watching him like a hawk the entire night, did not sound like a great time.

“Did I hear my name?” d’Artagnan popped his head in through the door, took in the situation before him, and immediately attempted to backtrack. “Oh, actually, I’ve got to go-”

“D’Artagnan!” Treville said, with a forced excitement. “How does a game night sound tonight?”

“Um, actually,” he began, stepping further in to the room after realizing there would be no easy escape, “I was invited to a party tonight.”

“And will there be alcohol at this party?” Athos asked.

“Uh…No?”

Athos fixed him with a look. “Try again.”

“Well, it’s more of an upperclassman party, so, probably, but I won’t be drinking! I promise!”

“Hmm.”

“Please, Athos, I swear I won’t be drinking, can I go?”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on, I—wait, hold on a second.” D’Artagnan turned sharply to Treville, who had been watching the proceedings with a sort of concerned amusement. “Dad, can I  _ please  _ go to the party? I won’t drink, and Aramis and Porthos will be there!”

Treville, a veritable master is choosing his battles, said, “Alright. Just make sure one of them can drive home.”

“Of course! Porthos has already volunteered to be our DD.”

Treville nodded, satisfied, but Athos narrowed his eyes. That didn’t really sound like Porthos, and as it were, Athos was correct. Porthos had  _ not  _ volunteered to be their designated driver, Aramis had decided that Porthos would be the DD and told d’Artagnan without first informing Porthos of his decision. Porthos, for his part, probably would not have agreed to this plan if Aramis  _ had  _ told him, if only to spite Aramis.

With approval gained, d’Artagnan darted out of the room, putting as much space between him and the oncoming intervention as possible.

“So just you and me, then.” Athos reached for his glass, which was unfortunately filled only with water. “Fun.”

  
  


Aramis and Porthos endured well enough the twenty million pictures Treville insisted he take of them, all dressed up in their nicest suits. Ordinarily, they probably would have had a good time with it—they could have made an entire photo album of all the goofy and creative pictures they’d taken with each other over the years. But even if Porthos had wanted to, Aramis was hardly in the mindset, too preoccupied with the novel idea that he and Anne would be able to be together—for real, and in public to boot. If Treville noticed his distraction, he didn’t mind. Porthos did notice the distraction, and most certainly did mind. They’d probably be apart the entire dance, and Aramis couldn’t even be bothered to do this one thing with him properly?

Once they’d said their goodbyes to Treville, a suitable number of pictures taken, they piled into Athos’ car, Aramis taking the driver’s seat. Neither said anything for a number of minutes, and neither really listened to the top twenty list playing softly on the radio.

“Who’s the corsage for? The lucky lady from last night, or someone new.” Porthos’ tone was not kindly or teasing like it usually would be. Instead he asked it as if it were some sort of condemnation. 

Aramis glanced over to Porthos, wondering what made him break their silence. “The very same lucky lady,” he answered, replying as he would have if Pothos had not been in whatever kind of mood he was currently in.

“Very lucky then, to have you for two consecutive nights.”

“What exactly is your problem, Porthos? Taken to slut-shaming have you?”

Porthos scowled and turned away, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I take it from your lack of corsage you’re going stag.  _ Again _ .” Ordinarily, Aramis would not have said this. At least, if he had, it would have been in that same kindly and teasing tone that Porthos also should have used. “Unless you’ve, by some miracle, actually managed to  _ talk  _ to a girl.”

“Why would I want to?” Porthos shot back, whipping his head back to face Aramis. “There aren’t any girls left that  _ you  _ haven’t already slept with.”

Porthos was not actually upset that Aramis was promiscuous. But Porthos would have had trouble articulating exactly what he  _ was _ upset about, and this was simply the easiest thing with which to target Aramis. 

The problem, in essence, was that Aramis and Porthos acted more often like friends than they did like brothers (not that the two were necessarily mutually exclusive). They hadn’t really had the period of adjustment that everyone else did—that is, the instant Aramis was brought into the fold, he and Porthos were thicker than thieves. Their code, the one that consisted of a series of motions and carefully chosen words devised originally to make fun of people (Athos) while in the same room as said people (Athos), had first been titled: The Secret Best Friends Code. This had shortened first to the Best Friends Code, then the Secret Code, then the BFFs’ Code, then only the Code, and then the code, when it had become so deeply ingrained in the vernacular the two of them used to communicate with each other that it no longer felt remarkable enough to require capitalization. They just got along so famously that on the rare occasions they  _ did  _ fight it was something of an event. Because brothers fighting could be a near-daily occurrence (Athos and d’Artagnan tended to have three or four minor tiffs a day), but when  _ friends  _ fought, more often there were actual consequences. 

Porthos wasn’t done, either. “You keep mooning over Anne, but you’ll never have a chance with her as long as you don’t stop sleeping with everyone she knows.”

Aramis had a response ready on his lips, righteous and satisfying, but he bit his tongue. He couldn’t tell Porthos, not yet, not even to win an argument he didn’t understand why they were having in the first place.

“Unbelievable.” Porthos shook his head and turned to look out the window.

Aramis turned up the music louder.

Prom was, in general, less than it was cracked up to be. As much as it is the focal point or climax of dozens of teen rom-coms or coming of age stories, it’s rare than anything actually  _ happens  _ at Prom. The most exciting things that could happen (aside from someone pulling the fire alarm) was the occasional bathroom hookup or the drama or who was dancing with who (for a little extra spice, who was dancing with a different person that the one they arrived with—this year, the fact that Anne had danced only a nominal dance with Louis after they’d been named Prom King and Queen before proceeding to spend the rest of the night with Aramis was bound to be the most interesting point of drama). But the real excitement of Prom night came after the titular dance. No, not like that.  _ The after-prom parties _ . Not the school function designed to keep students from going to said after-prom parties and getting completely wasted and potentially high, but rather the parties thrown typically by popular kids whose parents were supposedly “cool” but in actuality less-than-stellar parents.

The less-than-stellar parents of note this year belonged to a cheerleader, one in Anne’s circle of friends, which was how she was invited to this particular after-prom party. Aramis had been invited because he was Aramis, and more often than not actually remained on good terms with the girls he’d been with. Porthos had been invited both because he and Aramis were automatically assumed to be a package deal, and because generally, everyone liked Porthos, much in the same way everyone liked Constance (which was how she had been invited despite being only a sophomore and not even going to Prom). The reason behind d’Artagnan’s invite remained a mystery, much like the reason behind any amount of popularity he’d managed to accumulate. 

Aramis and Porthos (neither of whom were speaking to each other, which only made for an awkward car ride for everyone) picked up d’Artagnan on their way to the party, rescuing d’Artganan from listening to Athos and Treville passive-aggressively argue about what to watch on the tv. D’Artagnan was excited, not only because this would be his first high school party that wasn’t thrown by his brothers and also (hopefully) wasn’t a disaster, but because he had finally settled on an ingenious plan to regain Constance’s love—and it only had one, easy step.

He bounced out of the car once Aramis had found a spot about a block down from the house. He didn’t wait for either of his brothers, instead running ahead in the direction of the party. The night was warm, not oppressively so, but with just the right amount of a breeze to make it pleasant, so the beginnings of the party had already migrated outside onto the lawn. Even outside the house, d’Artagnan could feel the pumping bass of the music that was played  _ just  _ quiet enough that they could probably avoid a noise complaint.

D’Artagnan weaved through the crowd less than expertly—bumping into several people who looked big enough to take him in a fight but luckily not quite drunk enough yet to start one. He couldn’t find Constance anywhere (this was because Constance was purposefully avoiding d’Artagnan—whenever she heard a rude string of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘get out of my ways’ and ‘do you have to take up the  _ entire  _ hallways,’ she simply got up and changed rooms—not necessarily because she didn’t want to see him, but only to avoid what she thought would be an awkward situation, particularly since she wasn’t  _ blind _ , she’d seen d’Artagnan getting a little too close to that blonde girl the other day). Eventually, d’Artagnan concluded that Constance must not have gotten to the party yet, after all, since she wasn’t at Prom, she might not know what time everyone would show up. So he’d sat down to wait on a rather nice leather couch, sucking mournfully on a Capri Sun. Within ten minutes, he’d somehow ended up out on the front lawn, having challenged the first string quarterback to a completely made up modified version of dodgeball.

Porthos and Aramis, despite neither of them wanting to see the other, couldn’t seem to shake the other. They’d tried to walk to the house separately, but their strides kept naturally syncing up, and one of them had to either speed up or slow down to keep distance between them. And then, once they had entered the party itself, they would each walk into rooms (Aramis looking for Anne, and Porthos looking for someone even mildly as entertaining as Aramis to hang out with), see the other, turn their heels, only to walk into a new room and have the process repeat itself.

The two of them had finally caved and given up the pointless game when they ran into each other on the way to the drink table. They both stood in front of the table, a good three or four feet apart, staring at each other, until finally Aramis gave in first and said, “Aren’t you our DD?”

Porthos crossed his arms. “No.”

“I’m fairly certain you are.”

“I never agreed to that.”

Aramis rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Well I’ve already had a drink.”

Porthos scowled. The worst part, to Porthos, at least, was that he couldn’t tell if Aramis was lying. Before this past week, the idea that Aramis would lie to him was simply beyond imagination. Now he had to wonder how many other convenient lies Aramis told him. Porthos’ gaze lost focus on Aramis as he spied a familiar face from across the room.

“Ugh. Who invited  _ him  _ here?”

Aramis held out for two seconds before he twisted his head to follow Porthos’ line of sight. When he did, he spiraled through a quick series of emotions. First, happiness, because he’d finally found Anne. Next, confusion and perhaps a  _ touch  _ of jealousy (not an emotion Aramis was naturally prone to), because Anne was with another boy, though really, he was more of a man, a man who had his arm resting a little too low on her back to be platonic. 

“He looks like he’s in college,” he said.

“What?”

Aramis turned back to Porthos. “What?”

“Who are you talking about?”

Aramis gestured across the room. “That— _ guy _ , with Anne.”

Porthos pointed at his target. “ _ I’m  _ talking about Marsac.”

Comically, Aramis whipped around and followed Porthos’ finger. Indeed, Aramis’ ex was on the opposite side of the room, drink in one hand, the other pressed against the wall next to a dark-haired girl. Then he did a double take. “Hold on, is that…?”

“Yes,” Porthos grumbled. “That’s Alice.”

“The girl that you…?”

Porthos glared at him. “If your  _ friend _ -” Aramis didn’t like the emphasis Porthos put on ‘friend” “-so much as touches her-”

“First, we aren’t friends anymore. Second, that’s a little possessive, isn’t it? Considering you’ve never even had a full conversation with her.”

“Don’t be  _ stupid _ . It’s not about  _ me _ .”

Across the room, Marsac glanced up from his conversation and made eye contact with Aramis. Like a shock, he pulled his arm back from the wall and to himself. Aramis looked away quickly. Porthos watched this distanced interaction with a frown on his face.

“There’s not some kind of context I’m missing. Is there.” This, while  _ phrased  _ like a question, was in fact, a statement of fact.

“What are you talking about Porthos,” Aramis said, the lie automatic and not at all convincing. To be perfectly fair to Aramis, he had other things on his mind.

“Unbelievable,” Porthos muttered. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

“What did you say?” Aramis asked, not truly caring for the answer, focused again on Anne and the college-looking kid and trying forcibly to forget that Marsac was in the same room.

“You know what I’m gonna do?” Porthos said loudly. “I’m going to drink myself under the table.” He snatched a red solo cup off the table and downed it. Aramis showed no outward reaction, and Porthos glowered deeper because of the two people he was currently angry with, Aramis would not be upset if Porthos drank. But with Treville, apparently the only thing that did make him upset was when one of his kids was drinking themselves to death. That was how Porthos ended up downing three beers in the span of two minutes while thinking to himself, _ I wish that Dad were here to see this. _

  
  


_ “What is Wisconsin?” _

“It’s Michigan,” Treville corrected.

Athos glanced up to the screen from his nails. The Jeopardy question was “What state borders Lake Huron?” Athos looked back to his half-painted nails, completely uninterested. “I think you mean ‘What is Michigan.’”

“No, I know what Michigan is.”

Athos, mouth slightly open, looked to Treville, whose eyes were glued to the screen. “Do you actually know how Jeopardy works?”

“I know better than this guy.”

Athos let loose a heavy sigh. This night was turning out to be even more painful that he’d thought. He bit his tongue and strained his hand, trying in vain to stop it from shaking. He’d offered to paint Treville’s nails, mostly sarcastically, but now was desperately thankful Treville had only given him a look and turned on the tv, because otherwise it would have been impossible to prevent Treville from noticing the awful tremors through his hands. They came and went, but when they came they didn’t stop, not for hours. With painstaking effort, he’d managed an even coat on all of his left hand. 

“Damn it!” he exclaimed when his hand spasmed so bad he brushed a stain of black across half his index finger. He shoved everything he had out to the side, spilling black polish on the hardwood floor. He didn’t register that Treville had turned off the tv until he’d called out Athos’ name twice.

“Athos!”

“What?” he snapped back.

“Athos, what is the matter?”

“I fucked up.” Athos rubbed at the stain on his index with his thumb. “It’s nothing.”

Treville raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the pooling polish on the floor. “That isn’t nothing.”

“I’ll clean it up,” he said, irritable. He stood and felt Treville’s worried gaze on his back as he went to the kitchen for cleaning supplies.

  
  


“Constance!”

Constance closed her eyes and started counting, but only got to five before d’Artagnan was upon her.

“Constance, I’m so glad I found you, I’ve been looking for you all night!”

Constance threw on a false smile and turned to face d’Artagnan. “I’m sorry d’Artagnan, but I sort of have to go-”

“No wait, Constance, please, you don’t understand!” 

Constance sighed. “D’Artagnan-”

“No, please, just—hear me out, okay?” D’Artagnan threw on his best puppy-dog eyes, the ones that worked on everyone whose names were Athos or Treville. And Constance, apparently.

Constance clicked on her phone and made a show of checking the time, as if she had anywhere else she needed to be in the middle of the night. “What, d’Artagnan?”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan said, mainly to himself, hyping himself up. “Okay.” D’Artagnan fell to one knee. Beside them, someone was throwing up on the carpet. D’Artagnan reached into his pocket and held up a plastic ring. “Constance, will you marry me?”

Constance stared at d’Artagnan as one would if their ex just dropped to one knee and proposed to them with a plastic ring. “D’Artagnan….” She was completely and utterly at a loss. “No!”

“What?” D’Artagnan’s face fell. “Why not?”

“We’re too young! And—what is that on that ring?”

D’Artagnan brandished the ring proudly. “It’s the Green Lantern symbol. I ate ten cereal boxes for this.” That was, to d’Artagnan, the peak of romance. “And being young didn’t stop Romeo and Juliet!”

“D’Artagnan, they  _ died _ .”

“Well thanks for giving away the ending.”

“How could you not—never mind.” She looked down on d’Artagnan and felt her nearly nonexistent resolve break. “Oh, stand up.”

D’Artagnan jumped to his feet.

“D’Artagnan, what are you  _ doing _ ?”

D’Artagnan slid the ring on his own finger. No sense wasting a cool ring. “I’m trying to get you back, Constance,” he pleaded. “I miss you a lot. And-” D’Artagnan took a deep breath. This was going to be hard to say. “Constance, I like you a lot. I like you more than lacrosse--Constance, I’d quit playing lacrosse for you.”

Constance felt her mouth fall slightly open. For d’Artagnan, this was much more romantic (and much less stupid) than a proposal. “Do you really mean it?”

“Yes!” D’Artagnan nodded vigorously, honestly surprised how well received his declaration was (he’d really thought the proposal would do it, and didn’t really have too much hope in his backup plan). “Yes, I really mean it.”

Moving in sync, the two hugged tightly, both of them smiling stupidly into the other’s shoulder.

“I don’t…have to quit lacrosse though, do I?” d’Artagnan asked, not breaking the hug.

“Of course not, d’Artagnan.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Here,” Rochefort said, holding a cup out to Anne. 

“Oh,” Anne said. “I’m fine.”

Rochefort kept his scowl internal. He’d been trying to get Anne to drink all night, to no avail. After waiting to see her for  _ so long _ , he’d thought for sure tonight would be the night, but Anne was distant, barely engaging in conversation despite his best efforts.

“Are you sure? You haven’t had anything all night.”

Anne absently pulled down the hem of the shirt she’d changed into. “Yes. I’m not really in the mood.” Not in the mood to give her future child fetal alcohol syndrome, that is.

Rochefort sighed, barely audible, and moved his hand up from her back to play with the ringlets of her hair, crimped and irregular from the updo she’d had it in. Anne shifted but said nothing. Rochefort had always been affectionate like this; she told herself that was just how he was and she told herself it didn’t make her uncomfortable.

“You’ve seemed stressed lately…it’s not about Louis, is it?” Rochefort hadn’t seen Louis at the party so far, another reason he held onto his secret hope that tonight would  _ finally  _ be the night he worked through Anne’s defenses. 

Anne grimaced, but tried, with mild success, to turn it into a noncommittal smile. “He’s something to do with it, yes.” Louis was approximately ten to twenty percent of her worries. She still felt guilty about what she’d done, not to mention how awkward everything about Prom had been.

“What’s going on?” Rochefort asked, used to playing the role of confidant. “You can talk to me about it.”

Anne looked to the side. She hadn’t even told  _ Constance _ about it, telling Rochefort was out of the question. Anne paused at that, wondering when exactly Constance had become closer to her than Rochefort.

“Are the two of you-” Rochefort cut himself off as his eyes landed on Anne’s bare neckline. “Where’s your necklace?” he asked, with forced casualness. She’d been wearing it every other time he’d seen her, and the thought that she’d deemed it unworthy of her Prom night left a bad taste in his mouth.

Unwittingly, Anne glanced across the room to the drink table where she’d seen Aramis earlier, and her arm fell close to her stomach. Rochefort followed both movements with mounting suspicion and horror.

“Where is it, Anne.”

Anne turned back to Rochefort and blinked. “I…I must have left it at home,” she said, picking up on the change in tone, even if she didn’t understand it.

“You  _ said  _ you’d wear it  _ everyday. _ ”

“I was  _ exaggerating,  _ obviously, I don’t understand-”

“ _ Everyday _ , you said.” Rochefort held the cup back out to her. “Take the drink.”

“Rochefort, I said I didn’t want any-”

“ _ Take it _ . Unless you have some reason not to.” Rochefort watched Anne carefully, his jaw set in a firm line.

“I—I can’t.”

“And why  _ not _ ?”

Anne broke, putting her hands together, saying, “Please, you mustn’t tell anyone, especially not Dad-”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

“-please don’t tell-”

Rochefort saw red. He grabbed Anne’s arm in a bruising grip, squeezing tighter as she instinctively tried to pull away. “Who?  _ Who did it _ ? Louis?”

“Rochefort, you’re hurting me!”

“No, someone else,” Rochefort concluded, remembering Anne’s heartfelt glance across the room. He dragged her across the room in the right general direction, absolutely burning with jealousy. Louis was one thing; he wasn’t so much Anne’s choice, he knew that, it was more something both Anne’s and Louis’ families wanted than anything else. But someone else? Someone else that  _ wasn’t him? _

He caught the glinting of the cross even in the dark lighting. His gift to Anne, a token of his love, hanging around another man’s neck. 

“I’m going to kill him,” he said aloud. 

Anne’s heart was beating a mile a minute. “Aramis!”

Aramis was, for a moment, frozen, unable to totally process the sight of Anne, the girl he loved, future mother of his child, being manhandled and dragged across the room. 

Porthos, beside Aramis, acting purely on instinct, tossed the remaining contents of his drink directly into Rochefort’s face upon his approach. Porthos hadn’t processed more than ‘bigger man hurting girl’ before he’d acted, managed to toss the liquid at just the right angle to splash the mixed drink right into Rochefort’s eyes. Rochefort cried out, temporarily blinded, his eyes stinging with alcohol. Anne wasted no time in pulling her arm from his loosened grip and slammed her knee into his crotch, sending Rochefort stumbling to the floor.

Later, Porthos would argue he tossed the drink on purpose, to let Anne get her lick in, but truthfully, Porthos’ first instinct was just inherently not the most violent one.

“What the  _ hell  _ is wrong with you, Rochefort?” Anne’s voice was strong, even if there were audible tremors.

“Gah,” Rochefort said, still trying to blink alcohol out of his eyes.

“Anne.” Aramis reached out gently, and Anne took his hand. They’d gathered a crowd, with people from other rooms drawn by the commotion.

“What happened?” Constance asked, pushing through the crowd, d’Artagnan trailing behind her, to find her way to Anne’s side. She didn’t miss Aramis and Anne’s joined hands.

“I want to leave,” Anne said, to Constance and Aramis both.

“Our car’s down the block,” Aramis said.

“I’ve got this.” Aramis nearly jumped at the voice coming from beside him. Marsac stepped in front of their little group. His eyes flicked away from Aramis’. “I know what I did.” He tried and failed to avoid looking to Constance. “I know, but let me take care of this, you can go.”

Porthos watched him with open suspicion, but Constance, ever practical, said, without giving Marsac the dignity of acknowledging him, “Let’s just go.”

Porthos rather wanted to deal with Rochefort himself (so did d’Artagnan, although he had no idea what was going on), but ultimately decided Anne needed support more than he needed to beat up Rochefort (and Marsac, for that matter) and turned to leave with the others. A less sentimental reason was that his ride would be leaving without him if he stayed.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked once they’d stepped outside, which, for him, was a remarkable display of patience.

Anne opened her mouth and closed it again. She wasn’t entirely sure herself what had happened, it all started and ended so fast.

“Not now, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, noticing Anne’s hesitance. He himself would rather like to know what just happened, but wouldn’t press.

The five of them walked in silence until they arrived at the car. Aramis stopped with one hand on the handle. “Who’s actually good to drive?”

Porthos shook his head. “I told you, I’m not the damned DD.”

Constance held out her hand for the keys. Constance seemed to have some intrinsic quality about her such that, whenever she attended a party, people looked at her and assumed immediately she was the designated driver. As it happened, Constance didn’t drink, but she didn’t enjoy the assumption she’d be willing to drive everyone’s drunk asses around. She’d make an exception, in this case.

Wordlessly, Aramis handed her the keys. Porthos took the passenger’s seat, and d’Artagnan, Anne, and Aramis squeezed into the back, Anne and Aramis somehow maneuvering so they hadn’t had to let go of each other’s hands the entire time.

“So,” Porthos said, once they’d been driving for a minute. “That’s the secret you’ve been keeping, then?” He looked pointedly at their interlocked hands.

Aramis and Anne gazed soulfully at each other, which was enough of an answer for Porthos. However, their soulful gazing actually served a primary purpose other than to be mushy new lovers. “That’s not all,” Anne said. From the slight twitch of Aramis’ lips into a smile, she gained his agreement to continue. “I…I’m pregnant.”

If Constance were anything but a perfect driver, she might’ve slammed on the brakes. In such perfect unison Aramis halfway thought they’d found out this secret ages ago and were simply waiting to do this, Porthos, Constance, and d’Artagnan all said, “ _ What?” _

“Does it kick?” d’Artagnan asked, now eyeing Anne’s stomach with a look of unconcealed wonder. “Can I feel?”

Anne laughed, mostly because she hadn’t expected that particular question during this conversation. “No, I’m not quite that far along yet.”

“Oh.” D’Artagnan seemed disappointed.

“You…is it…yours?” Porthos was staring at Anne almost as if she’d explode.

Aramis nodded. “Yeah, it’s mine.” He tried for a smile. “You’re going to be an uncle, Porthos.”

“Sweet!” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

“So  _ this  _ is why you’ve been acting strangely,” Constance said from up front.

“I’ve been acting strangely?”

Constance risked an unimpressed glance backwards. “Yes, for the past week. I’d thought it was…” She trailed off. 

“How could you keep this from me?” Porthos kept his gaze fixed outside the front windshield, trying and failing to hide the hurt in his voice.

“Porthos…I…it wasn’t  _ personal _ .”

Porthos snorted.

“I mean it! Anne wanted it a secret, and we weren’t ready to tell anyone. Porthos,  _ I  _ wasn’t ready.”

Porthos gave up and looked at Aramis, trying to judge his sincerity. It was harder than it should have been. “Do you mean it?”

“Please, Porthos. You know you’ll be the godfather anyway, so you know I’d have told you eventually.”

Like a charm, it worked. Porthos grinned. Having kids wasn’t something either of them had given too much thought to (except to plan how many they’d have, whether they’d be boys or girls, what their names would be, just the normal stuff, as one does), but they had determined that no matter what, they would be each other’s first kids’ godfather.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Anne asked playfully, picking up on the lighter mood.

“Oh, I’m sorry Anne, but it was a pinky promise. No take backs, you know the rules.”

“Dear God,” Porthos said, resting his head back against his seat. “A  _ baby _ . For real.”

“Certainly not for fake.”

“Oh shut up, I’m processing this emotionally.”

“Um, I hate to interrupt,” Constance actually didn’t mind interrupting, “but where exactly am I heading?”

At that, Anne stiffened. She wasn’t ready to go home yet. Not when surely Rochefort will have told her father what had happened, certainly with his own version of events. Philip, her brother, would believe her story, but he was in Spain, and not in a position to help her now, especially not since no matter what story Rochefort spun one thing was still true: she was pregnant.

“We can go home and rescue Athos from Dad,” d’Artagnan suggested. 

Aramis laughed, letting the charged atmosphere dissipate. “Or maybe save Treville from Athos.”

“Your place it is, then,” Constance confirmed. She didn’t need directions. 

After about a minute and a half, Porthos said, “So, just to be clear, you and d’Artagnan are together again?”

“Yes,” Constance said, at the same time d’Artagnan said, “Yep!” D’Artagnan continued, “She turned down my proposal.”

“Hold on,  _ what _ ?”

Athos bounced his foot. This was much harder than he could have ever predicted. He felt nauseous again. But he couldn’t very well throw up or chug a bottle of vodka like he’d been wanting to do all week with Treville sitting  _ right there _ , watching him so closely Athos was beginning to wonder if he’d stopped existing and transcended into another plane, leaving time frozen behind him. Then Treville would blink and Athos would blink, thrown back to earth to remember how absolutely insane that was.

Athos wanted a drink so badly he thought he might explode. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since that night, more than a week ago now. Up until this past week, Athos had been under the delusion that if he only wanted to, he could stop drinking. But now, with the meager contents of his stomach threatening to come up, his head pounding, and the non-stop tremor in his hands, he acknowledged that maybe it wasn’t quite that simple. It wasn’t want anymore, he  _ needed  _ a drink.

A phone rang, and it grounded Athos more than he’d like to admit. Treville put his cell phone to his ear. 

“Treville.” Athos stopped his foot and listened carefully to the silence. “Now? Yes, I’m on my way.” Treville hung up. He looked back to Athos. “I have to go.” He held out a finger. “Do not do anything, and make sure your brothers make it home safe.”

Athos nodded on a delay, too caught up in  _ thank God, Treville was leaving, he could finally drink _ . It took Treville an additional two and a half minutes to leave the house, and Athos knew because he counted. The second the door closed behind him, Athos bolted up and into his room. He threw around his covers, looking desperately for a bottle of something. He was coming up with nothing. 

“What?” he asked out-loud. He pulled open his desk drawers. Nothing. He ran out of his room to the kitchen cabinet, the top one that Athos never took from because it was Treville’s own small collection, and found it empty. “Damn it!” Treville had done a deep-cleanse of the entire house. Athos hadn’t noticed ‘till now because he’d been actively avoiding looking in the places he stored his drinks. In desperation, he charged up the stairs to Porthos and Aramis’ room, only to come up with nothing still. He pulled out his phone. He could probably still find a bar that was open now, or maybe a liquor store or gas station. Then, he remembered something, and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste to run and check under the couch in the living room. He had a vague memory of a game night past where his drink had rolled under the couch and he’d spent the rest of the night trying and failing to pull it out while his brothers periodically ignored him or laughed at him.

It took him far longer than it really ought to have to retrieve it, but he did manage to pull out a two-thirds empty bottle of clear liquor. His hand froze over the cap. There was a reason he’d tried to stop. It had been hell, the past week, and that hell consisted of more than the, admittedly awful, physical affects of withdrawal. Everything was so much clearer now, sharper and noisy and overwhelming. It made his chest feel tight and it made him feel like he’d never stop burning. But he did it for a  _ reason _ . There was a baby now, apparently. A little child that, once it came into this world, would be  _ around  _ him, he’d be  _ responsible  _ for it, even if only in a indirect way. But he had always felt responsible for his brothers, so his brother’s child would be an extension of that. Athos didn’t want to be the drunk uncle, the liability to the family. But damn, if being the sober uncle didn’t feel impossible right now.

So Athos collapsed onto the couch, hand still clutched around the cap of the bottle, paralyzed in indecision. He only moved to check his phone and watch the hours crawl by.  _ Make sure your brothers are safe _ . It was starting to get late, too late. Still, the door didn’t open and his family didn’t walk in. He was alone in the house and unanswered texts on his phone. He wished he knew where the damn party was and he’d walk there himself to make sure they were safe. But he didn’t and all his calls went to voicemail and he thought over and over and over again  _ make sure your brothers are safe, make sure your brothers are safe _ . Athos had never felt so woefully insufficient in his life, awful images flashing across his mind, the worst things his imagination could conjure, most of them involving a burning heat and smoke choking his airway.

Then the door clicked and Athos bolted upright, the bottle falling onto the couch, momentarily forgotten. D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway and Athos threw himself forward without even thinking. He clung to his little brother tightly, eyes screwed shut and hands twisted in the back of d’Artagnan’s shirt.

D’Artagnan, although he was terribly confused, hugged Athos back on reflex. The others, once each of them had worked through the initial shock of Athos showing any kind of emotion that wasn’t just a brief smirk or general sadness, shuffled past the two brothers hugging in the doorway into the house.

“You won’t ever die in a fire, will you?” Athos asked into d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

D’Artagnan blinked. “No, I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” Athos said, squeezing d’Artagnan so tight he could barely breathe. After such a long time later that Anne had been directed to the bathroom and back, Athos finally let d’Artagnan go. “Why the hell did you get back so late?”

Aramis and Porthos shared a look. It wasn’t even one thirty yet. They said they’d be back before two.

“Where’s Treville?” Aramis asked, carefully avoiding whatever minefield Athos had apparently become in the time they’d been gone. 

“Some work thing he had to leave for.”

“Probably for the best,” Porthos said with a snort. “I think we’ve got something to tell you.”

“Oh?” Athos raised his eyebrows, looking hopefully between Constance and d’Artagnan.

Porthos looked to Aramis and Anne expectantly.

Aramis held out his hands. “Athos! Anne is…pregnant!”

Athos stared at him. “Yes.”

“Unbelievable,” Porthos said. “ _ Athos _ ? You told  _ Athos  _ before me?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. He was there, when Anne called. I was picking him up from that bar, the night of your last match, I told you about that, remember? And I got the call, and Athos listened in, because, apparently, he has no sense of personal privacy.”

“It’s true,” Athos added, thinking he should maybe back up Aramis when he was actually telling the truth. “It seems like you all have had a productive Prom night.”

“Productive is not quite the word I’d use,” Constance said dryly. D’Artagnan flung an arm around her shoulders, and she smiled softly back at him. Athos’ lips twitched upwards, glad his little brother had figured his shit out (funnily enough, it was Athos’ advice— _ just  _ talk  _ to her _ —that had finally worked for d’Artagnan, even though it was the idea he’d had the least faith in).

“It kind of sucked,” Anne admitted in the understatement of the night.

“Hm. I’m sorry to hear that,” Athos said. “I can’t offer awful music and annoying teenagers, aside from my brothers-”

“Hey!”

“-but I can offer whatever is left in the fridge and Uno.”

“Sounds perfect,” Anne said, genuinely. 

The group arranged themselves on the living room floor, with soda and Oreos and chips laid out around them, a furious game of Uno raging in the middle. Athos tensed every single time Constance gave d’Artagnan a draw four, unreasonably worried they’d have another breakup. When the round was up, Porthos eventually winning despite Aramis having had only one card for most of the round (they’d all collectively agreed to do absolutely whatever it took to prevent Aramis from winning, even at a personal detriment), Athos fumbled with the cards, never shuffling more than about halfway through the deck before dropping the cards. The others were too busy talking to notice, but d’Artagnan watched his brother’s mounting frustration. 

“Athos,” he began carefully (or as carefully as d’Artagnan knew how), “are you okay?”

The general din of the group diminished at the question. Athos slammed the deck on the floor and gripped his hands together in a belated attempt to hide the shaking.

“I’m fine, d’Artagnan.”

“Bullshit,” Porthos said. Athos looked up sharply. “I’ve had enough of these secrets. We can’t take care of each other if we keep hiding things!”

Athos, despite himself, glanced behind him to the mostly-empty bottle still laying on the couch, having gone unnoticed by all but him. The bottle had been scratching a burning hole into the back of his head since they’d sat down.

“Athos, have you had too much too drink?” Constance asked slowly, eyebrows drawn together with clear nonjudgmental concern. 

It was definitely the all-too-tempting dramatic irony of the situation that led Athos to actually tell the truth (not at all the worried and loving looks everyone in their little circle was giving him). He huffed what would have been a sardonic laugh if it had evolved to be more than just a puff of air. “Actually, not enough.” At the continuation of their looks, he focused his gaze on the still un-shuffled deck of cards and said, “I haven’t had anything to drink in a week. Not since last Saturday.” 

He made eye-contact with Aramis, and Aramis understood instantly. Anne glanced between the two, and her heart melted a little when she understood as well. She placed a hand over Athos’, slowing the tremors. “You’re going through withdrawal.”

Athos nodded. “It’s…not good.”

“We’re here for you, Athos,” Constance said.

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “’Course we are.”

“All of us,” Aramis confirmed.

“Oh God,” Anne said, placing a hand over her mouth. “I think I need to throw up-”

“Me too,” Athos said, standing and holding out a hand to help her up. “For me, it’ll mostly be bile but we can go together.”

“Watch out Aramis,” Porthos said as the two of them stood. “A couple that pukes together stays together.”

“Constance, do you want to go throw up together-”

“Ew, d’Artagnan!” Constance smacked d’Artagnan’s arm and he laughed. 

“What? Don’t you  _ want  _ to stay together?”

Constance and d’Artagnan devolved into trading playful barbs and flicks.

“Same, you know,” Porthos said to Aramis, as an aside.

“What’s that? You’d like to go puke?”

Porthos cleared his throat. “Not that, the, you know… _ all of us _ , and all that. You’re not alone, you and Anne.”

Aramis smiled. “Yeah. I know,” he said, truly feeling it for the first time in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> this one was labeled on my computer "self indulgent high school au 2 the electric boogaloo" and again that is the most accurate title
> 
> also I almost forgot, I'm trying out this whole "tumblr" thing,,,so if anybody wants to stop by my blog (it has like nothing on it yet, we're working on it lol) my username is chickenmuffinsoup


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